THE ENGAGEMENT RING
Many years ago (waaaaaay before being diagnosed with breast cancer) I began to plan how I would bequest certain pieces of jewelry between my two daughters —we have already established I am a type-A-personality kinda gal, so this should not come as a surprise. My engagement ring was part of the jewelry in question and it was initially assigned to my oldest daughter E., but, with the end of what used to be my happily-ever-after, I began to ponder whether this was still the right call.
So, my type-A self decided to do one of the things it does best: a pros and cons list.
On the pros side, I had one (fairly predictable) item: the ring’s sentimental value. However, a few items on the cons side gave me pause. For example, E. would most likely never wear the ring (as one typically does not wear somebody else’s engagement ring) and, more importantly, the ring would be perpetually linked to what we once thought was meant to be, yet, in the end, was not…
So, a few weeks later while I was grabbing drinks with my friends T. and C., I opened the floor for debate: “What have you ladies done with your old engagement rings?”
“I sold mine,” said T.
“Oh, you did sell it?” I said rhetorically.
“Fuck yeah…” she responded. “I bought a car with the money.”
“I still have mine,” said C. “I am not sure what to do because I have two girls, so who would get it?”
“What are you thinking?,” C. asked me.
“I think I want to transform it,” I replied, and, as soon as I said it out loud, I knew that was the right answer for me.
I didn’t want to design a new ring, nor did I want to create an intricate piece (no matter how fancy). I wanted to take the diamond out of its original setting and create a necklace with the stone as a stand-alone pendant. I would wear the transformed piece myself for a few years, and further down the road E. would get it and be able to actually wear it.
This made a lot of sense to me for practical reasons and, more importantly, for sentimental reasons.
An engagement ring is a symbol of the love and commitment between two people. The setting is in the shape of a circle because it symbolizes that said love and commitment have no beginning and no end. And the stone is usually a diamond, which, among other things, symbolizes inner strength, uniqueness, health and hope.
Sometimes, life happens… people grow apart, their commitment is broken and love, at least in its original form, ends. But does that mean everything else the ring symbolizes must come to an end as well?
A few months went by, and one day my engagement ring and I walked into my favorite jewelry store on the Avenue, where Mr. R., the owner, greeted me with his usual friendly gravitas.
“I have THE ring,” I said, as I put my solitary on the glass table with determination and conviction.
“Good. What are we doing with it?”
“I want to transform it into a pendant necklace. No fluff. Just the stone in the center,” I responded.
“Do you want to create a basket around the diamond?,” Mr. R. inquired.
“No,” I replied. “I don’t want anything compressing the stone. I want a stand-alone diamond, almost floating.”
“You got it,” said Mr. R.
So, I left my engagement ring in Mr. R.’s hands and, once again with determination and conviction, I left.
GRADUATION DAY
A couple of weeks after my visit to Mr. R.’s jewelry store, I was scheduled to have my last round of Herceptin. It was my graduation day (G-Day) after a year-long breast cancer treatment. I was D-O-N-E. Yay!
Yay..?
I thought I would be swimming in overwhelming excitement, yet, something did not feel quite as I had envisioned…
For starters, on the eve of G-Day I stayed up until past midnight doing nothing —binge-watching Netflix episodes, organizing random things which needed no organizing, and, in a nutshell, tricking myself into not going bed.
“What is going on…?,” I asked myself as I kept hitting the clicker aimlessly. “Why am I not going to bed?”
Then it hit me: By delaying my going to bed, I was creating the illusion of also delaying my last Herceptin (which, in turn, delayed my G-Day). I just couldn't figure out why...
I finally went to sleep and, before I knew it, the alarm went off. It was officially G-Day.
I opened my eyes, and everything felt different than my first chemo day —no quick jumping out of bed, no meditation session, no abs routine… I did, however, touch up the ends of my hair and smiled with a proud sense of accomplishment as the flattening iron slid down my once-again-strong locks. Eventually, I ran out of excuses to keep delaying things, and my daughters and I headed over to Dr. K.’s clinic.
The nurses had decorated my usual chair with a pink heart and a pink star, and everything was ready. I sat down, got one last prick in my right arm and watched the drip do its job for the last time. A year of memories flashed before my eyes and, to my surprise, just like with my first IV round, there was anxiety: once again, anxiety toward the unknown.
You see… for the past year I had been a breast-cancer patient supported by Dr. K., the nurses, the lab technician and a meticulously organized schedule of IV infusions every three weeks. For the past year, I had a defined identity contained in a defined structure, and that made me feel safe. Now, I was graduating and, with nothing to treat, it was time to let go of the structure.
The dilemma was whether that was also going to put my identity behind…
IDENTITY
So, let’s talk about identity.
Our identity is built upon the way we think of ourselves, how we define ourselves, and the story we tell ourselves about who we are. When we experience a loss, a huge part of grief is centered on the “it” that we have lost —it can be a thing, a relationship and even a part of our physical condition or health. That is our primary loss and grief. However, there is a secondary loss (and, as a result, a secondary part of grief) that goes attached to it: identity loss.
Case on point: our physical self.
Because our physical self is deeply linked to our day-to-day life, an illness or major injury can take a serious toll on someone’s identity and self-worth —no groundbreaking concept here, I know… But, as I sat on my IV chair for the last time, I realized that, in my case, the identity-loss dilemma operated the other way around. My anxiety toward the unknown and loss of identity was not coming from the illness. It was coming from the end (dare I say loss?) of the treatment and the new journey as a healed woman, which was about to start.
This got me thinking…
A STAND-ALONE STONE
On the afternoon of G-Day, I went back to the jewelry store on the Avenue to pick up my necklace. It was exactly what I had envisioned: a stand-alone stone, no longer contained in its old structure. It was classy, bright and strong.
It was ME.
The commitment once symbolized by my engagement ring had ended, but I would always preserve the essence of it and two decades of memories. Similarly, as of G-Day, I was no longer a breast cancer patient who needed active treatment and ongoing medical support structure. BUT, I was ready to capitalize on my healing journey, own my health and freedom and move on.
Throughout this year-long journey, someone (you know who you are) kept reminding me the only constant in life is change. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, it all begins to sink in, and I can add to it: sometimes embracing change allows us to reclaim our essence; our inner strength, uniqueness, health and hope.
The anxiety toward the unknown is still there, but, as I move forward, I let go of the old settings and uncover my never-lost, yet, evolved identity.
I uncover and reclaim my own stand-alone stone.
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